Rob

Vischer

One evening, as I complained about our country's disgusting politics and morality with my parents around their dinner table, God gave me a heavy impression that all of our "talk" didn't matter. The conversation transformed into white noise as the impression grew. I finally interjected by asking if we could pray for our country rather than complaining about it. My mom and dad are always up for a prayer meeting, so we spent about 30 minutes praying an "around the world" missionary-style prayer.

After we felt satisfied, I decided to head home. I hugged my parents, walked out to my car and grabbed the keys from my pocket. Then without any miraculous warning, I heard God say, "Go to Seven Eleven. There's a guy named Jim that I want you to talk to." I didn't hear it with my ears. I heard Him with my body. My entire being had become a satellite that detected God's voice. As I opened my car door, I smirked thinking that my imagination had finally got the best of me. "Really, Lord? A guy named Jim?" I asked chuckling. "Well, I'll do it. Might as well. No harm can come from it."

When I pulled out of the driveway, God kept revealing things to me. By the time I rolled into the store's parking lot, I sensed that after meeting Jim, I was supposed to "offer him hope for his finances and offer him money." I also made up my own visual story of how I was going to meet Jim. I pictured myself emerging confidently from my car, walking in the door, and "poof!" The worker behind the counter would be Jim. Legit and simple! I wouldn't even have to risk looking like a fool because he'll have a nametag. Needless to say, my imagination was as wrong as a businessman coming to work in spandex.

When I strolled through the doors, there was a girl at the counter and nobody else in the store. So, I did what any other guy would do. I putzed around each aisle staring intensely at snack foods I had no intention of buying. After I made my way through five aisles without picking up a single snack, I thought, "This girl thinks I'm going to rob the place."

So, I invented a slightly awkward conversation about Jesus that seemed to do the trick. After conversing for ten minutes, neither of us had anything left to say. So, I started skimming the nutritional content of Twinkies and HoHo's. "God," I whispered, "I'm gonna leave. I must've missed it. I don't want to look like a weirdo."

The moment I finished praying, a guy walked in. God said, "That's Jim. Go up to him boldly and say, 'Your name's Jim, isn't it?'"

I obeyed. He didn't have a nametag. He didn't get out his ID, but somehow I knew his name was Jim. I put the Twinkies on the shelf, tapped him on the shoulder, and stated, "Your name's Jim, isn't it."

His whole body turned with surprise as he said, "Yeah, how'd you know?"

A tingle shot up my spine, and I said, "The Lord sent me here to offer you hope for your finances."

Jim said, "Hmmm, that's funny. I'm going through a bankruptcy right now."

After I explained to him that God wants to be intimate with him and teach him about finances, Jim said, "I feel like there's electricity going up and down my spine."

I said, "That's the Holy Spirit." Then a light bulb clicked in my mind and I asked him, "Are you a Christian?"

I knew I had his attention, and I didn't want to miss the opportunity. He said that he was. I couldn't help but be disappointed. Hey! It was a perfect witnessing opportunity. I offered him money, but he wouldn't take it.

He said that he had what he needed - referring to God. After we talked for a few more minutes, he thanked me, and said reflectively, "Now I know that miracles really do happen."

As his pickup truck drove away, I knew his last remark was the kicker. Somewhere out there, "a guy named Jim" believes in miracles.

Next time you're tempted to complain about the immorality or political state of our nation, pray instead. Moral and political solutions separated from intimacy with God amount to nothing.